


Collision Theory

by orphan_account



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Gen, Ishbal | Ishval, Pre-Canon, Prompt Fic, Speculation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-28
Updated: 2014-03-28
Packaged: 2018-01-17 06:58:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1378093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three months into his hell-bent research fever he had exhausted the tiny bookshop at the end of the way with the cracked pane in the glass window and the dusty bell that announced the shuffled arrival of guests. Arms laden with books and family sash tied tightly around his waist and over his shoulder, he trudged up the street.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Collision Theory

**Author's Note:**

> Backburner fic #5. Written for the prompts: "yo geecer for that minor character meme: how about some scarbro?" "DUDE COULD YOU LIKE write out that Hohenheim & Scar's bro headcanon?" [this one has been there for _two weeks_ ; I'm quite sorry] and "Could you write more of one of the underappreciated minor characters? Thank you!"
> 
> Title is a reference to the chemistry/physics concept.
> 
> Unedited/unbeta'd/etc. Enjoy!

Three months into his hell-bent research fever he had exhausted the tiny bookshop at the end of the way with the cracked pane in the glass window and the dusty bell that announced the shuffled arrival of guests. Arms laden with books and family sash tied tightly around his waist and over his shoulder, he trudged up the street.

The Amestrisian officer on the corner eyed him while he walked past, bending his knees and bowing his head ever so slightly. Not out of a lack of pride, but because he had little time to deal with some unfound accusation. “Halt,” she barked in her coarse Amestrisian. “Drop the books.”

Murmuring a quick prayer of thanks that his brother hadn’t come with him, he carefully placed the volumes on the ground. She kicked open the first, then inspected them more closely.

He removed his spectacles to wipe them off.

“Where are you taking them?”

“To the book store, ma’am. I’m returning these.”

When he settled his glasses back on the bridge of his nose, pushing the edges, he noticed how her eyes had narrowed, how her mouth had hardened into a thin line. “Books on alchemy, I see. Are you aware that this is prohibited material.”

The toneless clip at the end of the sentence, short and decisive as a gunshot, nearly stole his voice away entirely. He mulled over the Amestrisian in his  head: “I apologise, ma’am, but they’re not on alchemy. They’re books on philosophy, and the authors are using alchemy as an example.” He indicated the title of the first tome— _On the Natural Order of Man_ —and held his arms in front of him, palms open. “I’m not an alchemist.”

_Technically_ he had lied: He considered himself a master of both alchemy and alkahestry, some third word that he had yet to figure out for himself. The officer frowned at him. Her hand had crept down to her hip, to the _holster_ at her hip.

He forced himself to breathe.

Suddenly her head snapped up. Blinking, he turned just in time for another man to bump into him, nearly sending him flying. “Oh,” said the man, as if pleasantly surprised, and looked up from the book that the man had been perusing while walking aimlessly through the street. The man squinted up at the officer. “Is there a problem with this fine young man?”

The officer’s brow furrowed in her apparent confusion. “Do you know him?”

“Of course,” the man continued calmly, offering him a hand. As perplexed as the officer, he took it and stood, brushing dust from his trousers. “Thank you for bringing me my books. Walk with me.” The man grabbed the officer’s wrist and pumped her arm up and down in lieu of a handshake. While she stared, the man clapped his shoulder, dumped the books into his arms, and pushed him forward.

The instant they left the officer’s field of vision he turned on the man. The books tumbled against one another, pages rustling. “What was that? Who _are_ you?”

The man pushed up the bridge of his spectacles; the lenses flashed. “Oh, just a passerby. You seem to be bright, though. Bright enough equivocate to an officer.” He felt his face pale. “You seem like an alchemist to me. And _those_ books seem awfully outdated.”

He looked down at the tomes in question and then back up at the golden-haired man who somehow didn’t quite strike him as Amestrisian.

“If you’d like, I could direct you to some better books on the subject.”

His eyes widened. The books clattered to the ground as he lunged to grip the man’s hands. “Oh, please! That sounds incredible—and you would do that for _me_?”

The man shrugged. “Heavens know we need more alchemists . . .” His smile seemed tinged with the slightest hint of sadness. “without the arrogance to call themselves that.”


End file.
